The Secret Life of Harry Potter
by Kid Twist
Summary: Set directly after Half Blood Prince. Harry turns away from the light, and begins to do things his own, more violent way. Harry the hitman. Guns and magic mixed together can be a dangerous combination.
1. New York

The door of a small, dark apartment burst open, flying across the room and landing in a cloud of dust upon the extremely dirty floor. Four men sitting around a tiny card table turned their heads in surprise, two of them staring blankly at the door lying in front of them, the other two gazing in alarmed fascination at the figure standing in the door. A slender young man of about 17, dressed in a dark suit and tieless shirt stepped over the threshold of the dingy flat, forcing the other two men to shift their attention from the ground to the their unexpected guest. One of them gasped, clearly showing a sign of recognition, while the other three continued to gape in amazement, their repulsive, sweat stained undershirts hanging as loosely upon their flabby bodies as the cigarettes sitting precariously between their lips. For several seconds a complete silence filled the room; none of the four men at the table dared to budge a muscle, while the emotionless youth stood perfectly still in the door frame. The tension hung as thickly as the cigarette smoke in the air. Who would make the first move, if anyone? The man who had made the start of recognition began to tremble slightly, and his eyes grew more and more restless as the seconds ticked painfully by. His hand shook as he withdrew it from the table. The young man's glasses flashed as he sharply twisted his head in the man's direction. His fingers twitched. A flash of light erupted from under the table, speeding towards the youth, and hitting him squarely in the chest. A thin wooden stick flew from his pocket and arched into the air, scratching the ceiling as it did so. The man stood up, attracting the shocked and frightened looks of his companions, as he reached out to grab the piece of wood, all the while clutching his own tightly in his other fist. His focus was directed completely towards catching the thing, and he did, snaring it between the thumb and first finger of his left hand. He let out a bark of triumphant laughter before redirecting his eyes, this time more confidently, at the individual standing in the black suit. But whatever victorious sentiment he was feeling as he caught the stick vanished instantly as he caught a glimpse of the dark image in the doorway, who was steadily aiming a silver handgun directly between his eyes.

"Don't give me a reason," said the youth, "Because I can assure you that I do know how to fire one of these."

He had a British accent, and his green eyes looked cold and determined beneath his glasses. No bead of sweat was glistening on his scarred forehead. This young man was as cool as they came.

The man raised his hands slowly, holding one of the wooden sticks in each hand. His knees shook violently at the look in his opponents eyes.

"Harry," he said, "Mr. Potter... Sir..."

His voice broke as Harry's lip curled.

"Please Harry. I swear I wasn't involved with him. I'm from America. I live in America. How could I ever have anything to do with him? You've got to believe me. I swear to Christ I'll do anything to help you!"

He sank to his knees, and began crawling towards the door, tears intermingling with the perspiration that was dripping freely from his face.

"I'm begging you Mr. Potter! I'm fucking begging you! You don't even know who I am! You don't even know-"

But whatever else it was that Harry didn't know would never be revealed, for a bang and a flash of light had exploded from the end of his gun, and the man lay dead on the floor, his face planted firmly into a quickly expanding pool of blood. Harry nimbly avoided allowing his leather shoes to be engulfed by the deep crimson liquid, and scooped his wand out of the dead man's hand. He turned to the associates of the man, none of whom had uttered a single syllable. Instead, they gaped in horrified silence at the corpse of on the floor of their apartment.

"'Scuse me," said Harry quietly, and they all looked at him, "I'm going to need to touch up your thoughts a bit before I leave. Sorry."

And quite quickly, he erased his image from all of their memories, before stupefying them one by one and leaving them lying unconscious on the floor. He stepped over the body without looking down at it, and slipped out of the window, deciding to head down the fire escape to the ground.

This was the secret life of Harry Potter. The life which he had adopted directly after the burial of Dumbledore without confiding in anybody; not Ron, not Hermione, not Ginny, not Lupin. He had made it his mission, along with discovering the secrets of the remaining Horcruxes, to methodically eliminate each supporter of Voldemort around the world, no matter how significant. He had travelled to far Russia, South China, Brazil, Italy, every city in Britain, and, as of this moment, to New York City. The Dark Lord's influence had spread rapidly since his public reemergence, and his supporters in countries around the world had become more and more active, more and more dangerous. He had just killed a man by the name of Bruno, a wizard who had the unfortunate habit of gathering unsuspecting Muggles towards him as friends, before killing them all. He had claimed at least eight victims before he too was sent to whatever lay beyond life.

Harry walked through the busy streets, waiting patiently for darkness to fall, so that he could mount a certain flying motorbike and travel as quietly as possible back to London.


	2. Lee Jordan

London looked as it always did from hundreds of feet above; a mass of yellow stars twinkling below him, basking in the light of the silver stars above. His hair blew across his face as he rode in, streaking noisily across the sky. Sirius' old motorbike was undoubtedly his favorite mode of transportation. He flew directly over the city, looking for an ideal landing spot near his East Side home.

He had lived alone since the end of the last school year, neglecting both Godric's Hollow and Grimmauld Place as possible bases, and opting instead for a room above one of the East Side's many pubs. It was a tiny, miserable, flat located on a tiny, miserable street, which was overrun with ferocious gangs, debilitating drugs, and enough petty murderers to fulfill any person's nightmares. It was, to Harry, the perfect atmosphere from which to gain the motivation and frame of mind to carry out his missions.

A dark square of grass, which the city of London called a park, provided Harry with ample cover to safely land the motorbike, and he rode it through the streets to get home. The flashing streetlights and thudding music from the windows of the apartments along the way, supplied an almost elliptical mood, and Harry rather despised it. It made him feel more violent, more outcast, more strange. 'Disturbingly silent, elliptically violent', that's how Lee Jordan had described Harry during their last encounter, which was rather a more frequent event then either of them had expected. In fact, Lee had become Harry's primary confident, and probably the individual who knew and understood most about what Harry was doing.

Lee had lived in London's mean streets his entire life, and although Harry had never realized it at Hogwarts, it had rubbed off on him. He was a well known figure in this neighborhood, a young menace to society, the kind of young buck who was disturbing the natural progression of criminal activity in the city. Lee had no relation to any prominent member of London's underworld, nor did he have any sort of connection through jail or mutual friends. He was simply a mysterious figure who would disappear for months at a time before reappearing as suddenly as he had left. His reputation was not one of being a strategist, or a gambler, or even as a good fighter, but rather as a lunatic. He had no fear. He would attack men three times his size, or challenge full gangs on his own. And he would win. Without magic. He would simply fight with such ravenous delight that it was intimidating to anybody, no matter what their size or numbers. Lee was a threat to the well being of many, and was treated with wary respect by all who crossed him.

It was, thus, a shock when Harry arrived at the pub and, upon seeing Lee sitting in the corner, embraced him like a friend, and even inspired in the lunatic a sort of reverence. The mysterious control that Harry had over Lee had resulted in Harry's being well respected himself, if not well-liked. He did not speak to many people, and was undoubtedly viewed as being a very strange and disturbed young man. It was rare to see a young man, still in his teens, walking through the dark alleys in snappy new suits, smuggling guns out of the pub in his overcoats, vanishing, it seemed, into midair if one looked the wrong way. His hair was still untidy, but often hung loosely around his face, and his complexion was very pale, almost ghostly. His dark clothing, the lightly pin-striped suits, the blood red shirts and the black silk ties all made him look even milkier, and when he stood in the dark, his head seemed to float in the air. He walked slowly, but with purpose, his long stride helping him to glide effortlessly through the masses of ordinary folk dressed in grey. The lightning scar on his head glared angrily at any one with whom he spoke, and seemed to become more inflamed every day. Harry was, quite often, a frightening site to behold.

As he approached the pub, which appeared to be quite full, despite the lateness of the hour, his mood of violence and anger had not yet passed, and he considered taking some time before entering, to cool his head, to calm his nerves. Fatigue had been slowly descending upon him like a heavy blanket though, and he doubted whether he could maintain control of the vehicle for any longer. He steered the black bike around the building, and into the vacated lot at the back where it was normally kept. After muttering a few anti-theft charms, he circled around to the front of the bar, took a deep breath and entered.

The air, of course, was impossible to breath, infested as it was the smoke from innumerable cigarettes and cheap pipe tobacco. Scarce few people had noticed his arrival, which was as Harry preferred it; he easily lost his temper with the drunks in the tavern. He moved silently through the mass of brown cloth caps, a streak of black lightning through the smoky gloom, before stopping at the bar. The bartender, and landlord, Simon, glanced quickly over at Harry as he stood casually beside the door to the stairs. It was clear that Simon had something to say, because he made a frantic wave at Harry in the most inconspicuous way possible. Harry noticed and grudgingly obliged. He liked Simon. The rent he paid he charged was cheap, and he often supplied Harry with a free drink on a slow day. A tip had been laid upon the bar, which Simon collected rapidly, before turning to Harry. He leaned in close so as to avoid shouting.

"'Arry, son," he began, "I just wanted to let you know, that bloke wiff the dreadlocks is in your room. I let 'im in. I knew 'ee's your mate, and 'ee seemed to need an urgent word. Musta been, say, fifteen minutes ago, all right?"

"Yea," Harry replied, "Thanks Simon. I'll see you in the morning."

"Rent's due, son. Don't you fuckin' forget, mate!"

And with a jaunty wink and swift smile, Simon swept off to serve yet another drink to one of the regulars.

'An urgent word with Lee?' thought Harry. He had no idea what this could be about; Lee had never requested an audience of him before, as they usually met in the pub. The stairs creaked as he climbed them, and, upon reaching the top, Harry had some trouble finding the knob of his door in the pitch blackness of the hallway. He opened it, and immediately drew his handgun, for the first thing he caught sight of was a long smear of blood which extended from the corner where the wall met the floor to the middle of the room. He had only opened the door about six inches, and slowly pushed it the rest of the way, his gun held steadily beside his impassive face. It had slowly become nature to draw his gun before his wand, seeing as the majority of the men he had killed so far had been surrounded by a load of bullet slinging cronies. The hinges scratched and squeaked as they opened, but Harry had already let his gun fall to the side of his body; Lee Jordan was sitting in Harry's only armchair, beaming at him. Two badly battered bodies lay at his feet; indeed, he was using them as a footstool.

"Allright, 'Arry?" said Lee, his white teeth glinting in the rooms pale light as he spoke, "I've just 'ad to straighten these two fuckers out, mate. Seems like they 'ad the brilliant idea to kill you. Was gonna wait in 'iding for you to enter the room, they was, and then Jack-In-The-Box, open fire the moment they saw your eyes. Wasn't expectin' no black man though!" He turned his face towards the floor, at one of the bodys, which was bleeding profusely from the right eye socket.

"Was you?" he yelled, "Was you, you stupid fucking wanker? Anyways, 'Arry! 'Ow was your evening mate?"

Harry was dumb struck. No matter how many times he had seen Lee openly display his vicious nature over the course of the summer thus far, Harry was not prepared for him to talk lightly about to murders he had just committed in Harry's living room. He seemed to notice Harry staring at the corpses.

"Don't you worry 'bout them, 'Arry. They got what they deserved, they did."

"If you say so..." Harry shook himself out of his daze, "Yea... Yea, sorry Lee, you're right of course. I'da killed 'em too, I suppose. Perhaps maybe not as violently, thats all."

"Well, that's just the way I do fings, innit?" said Lee, a touch of defiance in his voice. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and exhaled, sending a dense cloud of billowing smoke flowing slowly from between his barely opened lips. He looked very comfortable in Harry's chair.

"Listen Lee," Harry began, finally breaking the silence, "Why was it you wanted to see me? Simon said it was urgent."

"Oh, fuck me, right!" Lee responded, "Yea, right, well see, I was talkin' to Fred and George see. I dunno what's the big deal exactly, but it's summink to do wiff a wedding. They was wonderin' where the fuck you was, is all. Told 'em I'd pass on the message. Want you to go to the Burrow, if'n you likes of course."

Harry had nearly forgotten. Bill's wedding. The few days of peace he had wanted to spend with Hermione and Ron. He would have to rush. With a quick glance at Lee, who was leisurely smoking his cigarette, Harry spun on his heel, the jacket of his suit flapping behind him as he streaked out of the room.

"Lock up when your done in here, right?" cried Harry over his shoulder. Lee coughed his acknowledgment. "Oh, and," Harry continued, "Who sent them?"

"Who?" asked Lee in a raspy voice.

"The fucking assassins!"

"Oh. Er, they said 'oo it was. Er...Snape! Yea, that's it, fuckin' Snape! You oughtta kill 'im 'Arry."


	3. The Burrow

Flying once again over London, Harry was faced with a very difficult decision; should he do as he had promised, and arrive at Bill's wedding, or should he immediately begin his pursuit of Severus Snape. He knew which choice made the best sense, which choice was the most sane, but he also realized that his sanity was in a state of great peril at the moment.

His teeth were gritted in a state of divine rage, and the scenery was blurring around him, such was his anger. Snape, the murderer of Albus Dumbledore, the man who's image most thoroughly consumed and drove Harry along his fatal rampages, had sent two men into his home in hopes of killing him. The very idea made Harry tremble with fury. But what kind of a scene would he cause by arriving at the Burrow in such a state, with his grimy, windswept hair, disgruntled looking suit, and shockingly blood shot eyes? Still, he didn't really have much of a choice. How could he possibly explain his absence to his friends; it would be difficult enough explaining his disappearance from their lives for the first weeks of the summer. The air rushing past his ears made Harry relax slightly, and he tried to regulate his breathing, although his heart was still pounding violently against his rib cage.

The wheels of Sirius' motorcycle touched softly upon the pavement of a road about twenty miles from the Burrow. It was the only secluded spot the Harry had been able to find, and he thought that a non magical approach to the wedding would be a safe idea at any rate.

It was very early in the morning, around four or four thirty, and the first hints of steely blue were making themselves noticeable at the furthest reaches of the horizon. A beautiful day looked as though it were looming, although Harry strongly doubted whether he would notice. He hadn't slept in days; the trip back from New York had taken the vast majority of 24 hours, and night had fallen when he had arrived at the pub and had had his encounter with Lee. Now dawn was breaking again, and with it came a feeling of extreme drowsiness for Harry. He hoped he would be able to catch forty winks when he arrived.

The Burrow, as it came into view, looked, as always, distinctly odd; it was dilapidated as per usual, but was surrounded by many elegant cars, all Ministry vehicles, and a great number of smaller bungalows which had not been there before. It became clear to Harry that the guests must all be staying on the Weasley's property, and had decided to simply bring along smaller houses of their own, by magic, instead of imposing themselves upon the Weasley's directly. The property had the air of a small village, centered by a dark, looming castle.

Harry pulled in front of the house, driving as slowly as possible, trying to avoid waking anyone. He killed the motor, and slipped shakily off of the motorcycle, his legs feeling weak beneath him. No lights could be seen in the upper reaches of the house, although a dim, flickering glow was being emitted from the living room. A fire had been lit, no doubt. Harry crept to the door and knocked on it lightly, feeling bad for arriving at such an absurd hour. The knock, he knew, would not be heard in the house (it was barely audible even to him), and, as expected, it was met by no reaction from within. The only option, and it was secretly what Harry had wanted to do the entire time, was to unlock the the door magically. The lock clicked quietly, and Harry slipped inside the house, opening the squeaky door as slightly as possible.

He glided to the kitchen, which was in a state of the most extreme confusion Harry had ever seen it in. The dishes were placed in several stacks, all of which climbed endlessly up to the ceiling, which was stained, in some places, with several mysterious substances. Wedding presents were piled in a mound which completely engulfed the table, and which trailed off into the sitting room, which was filled with witches and wizards in sleeping bags. It looked as though most of them had raided the kitchen cupboards during the night, as nearly every one was left ajar. The bungalows outside had obviously not been sufficient to house all the guests

The stairs groaned as Harry climbed them, looking for a place to sleep. Each room was filled to well beyond it's capacity, with the exception of Ron's room, were he and Hermione lay peacefully. They were in his bed, his arm laced lovingly around the back of her neck, his hand snaking down her side and coming to rest just below her breast. They faced each other, and she had her fingers resting lightly upon his waist. Moonlight washed the room in a cold blue, and his friends looked as though they were locked in a deathly embrace, free to lie together for eternity. Harry stood and watched them as the lay, trying to see whether they were breathing or not, so pale was their complexion in the moonlight.

The ice around his heart thickened as he watched them breath, his blood sending an evil freezing sensation through his limbs, making his fingers twitch and his hands slide involuntarily towards his gun and wand. To protect these people, the people who cared about him and who he cared about, was his only ambition, and he would do it any way he could, be it through murder, or torture, or viciousness.

Harry turned abruptly away from Ron and Hermione, realizing as he did that his left hand was wrapped firmly around his gun, and that he was sweating profusely. The cold he felt suddenly became apparent, and he moved purposely up the stairs, looking to thaw his soul.

He reached Ginny's room, which was packed with people, and stood by the door in perfect stillness. 'How many people must be coming to this wedding,' he thought, but was distracted by a movement near the window. Ginny was sitting there, not having noticed him, watching the brightness in the sky expanding slowly. He moved just in time for her to miss him as she turned her face towards the door.

The kitchen was insufferably warm, but it was really the only place Harry had to go. There was no way he was going to sleep in the same room as Ron and Hermione, and he wasn't about to talk to Ginny as she sat staring lonlily out of the window. He was seated, instead, at the table, watching the same seen as her through the grimy window above the sink, but not really noticing it's splendor. His fatigue was too overwhelming. He slowly nodded off, knowing in the back of his mind that he would soon be awoken as the guests filtered into the kitchen for breakfast.


	4. Mirrors

"Harry?...HARRY!"

The voice woke Harry suddenly, and he wrenched his head upwards, staring around wildly for who might be yelling at him. Arthur Weasley was hurrying into the kitchen, a look of surprise and concern upon his face. Harry glanced at his watch as the red-headed figure approached. It was 6:30. He had got a solid hour and a half of troubled, oft-interrupted sleep. Truthfully, it was more than he could have hoped for.

"Mr. Weasley!" Harry began, "Sorry I had to sneak in last night, I didn't want to dist-"

"Never mind that," Mr. Weasley cut him off, "Are you all right?"

The concern was etched in every line of his face, and Harry felt a wave of gratitude and warmth flood over him. There were people in his life who had genuine love for him, and who needed to be sure that he was safe in order to be at peace. Harry smiled slowly, his dry lips cracking slightly as he did.

"Yeah... Yeah, I'm fine, thanks Mr. Weasley. And... and I'm sorry I haven't been in touch, I just, I wasn't..." his stammering trailed off, and he looked up into the older man's eyes, hoping that he would understand.

"Wait here. I'm going to get Molly."

Mr. Weasley turned his back, and rushed towards the stairs, his threadbare house coat flapping slightly behind his slippers which were slapping noisily on the ground. He stopped just before the stairs and turned to look at Harry. There was a sadness on his face, which Harry couldn't understand, and which worried him slightly, but it was gone with the swish of the housecoat.

The early risers in the Weasley's living room were beginning to stir, much to the obvious annoyance of those who liked to lie in:

"Oy, what the fuck do you fink your doing?"

"Sorry, sorry Cecil, didn't meant. Didn't see you there did I?"

"You treaded right on me fuckin' face, you bullocks! 'Ow could you not see me fuckin' face?"

"Sorry, mate, sorry. You know I wouldn't tread on me own cousin on purpose, dontcha?

Harry chuckled to himself quietly. Just how he had imagined Ron's relatives. He had worked out during the night that the multitude of people staying in the Weasley's house were direct members of the family; aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. This had become quite obvious as the mornings early light had filtered through the Burrow's windows, igniting dozens and dozens of blazing red heads. That meant that the bungalows outside would belong to friends and business associates. In total, Harry guessed, there must have been at least 400 witches and wizards on the premises. This would be quite a party. Harry got up, and sidled over to the mirror that hung by the doorway. He hadn't seen himself in days. As he drew nearer though, he thought he must have got the mirror confused with a rather hideous portrait, because that certainly wasn't his reflection staring back at him.

"Let yerself go a bit, haven't you mate?" said the face on the wall. It was his voice. Harry gasped, nearly falling to his knees. The skin across from him looked as though it had been shoved forcefully into a pile of chalk dust, so white and blotchy was the complexion. The eyes were sunken, and encircled with wreaths of darkness, while the eyelashes were caked with shards of sleep and smears of off-yellow puss. His normally untidy hair was so drenched with stale sweat and was so long that it simply hung lankly over his ears and over his forehead to his eyebrows. His lips were broken and anointed with several open wounds so that they stood out like a massive smear of blood across a serene, snowy landscape. Harry stepped back in horror, his lips quivering and curling slightly, showing off golden teeth and tinted gums. With a feeling of deep dread, he raised his hand to his forehead and pushed his hair back from his brow, looking for his scar. It was not a difficult search. The wound looked more jagged, more angry, and was such a deep hue of flaming red that it was nearly purple. Against his skin, it might as well have screamed out for attention. Despite his horror, Harry was transfixed; his eyes, which looked like green lanterns, could not be ripped away from the creature that stared back.

"Told you, didn't I? You've got to take car of yourself son!" said his reflection.

He stumbled backwards, coming to rest very unsteadily in the chair he had been sitting in earlier. The young man who had trode upon Cecil's face was watching him warily, clearly not recognizing him as Harry Potter.

"Harry!", came a yell from up the stairs. Molly Weasley. "HARRY!", she screamed again, closer this time. He was not about to let himself be surrendered to her painfully loving care. Not in this state. He stood up quickly from the chair, causing his head to reel, and tried to run for the door, realizing for the first time just how weak he was. After two unsteady steps, he fell, crashing down upon the dusty hardwood, and lay sprawled their as Mrs. Weasley came bounding into the kitchen.

"Oh Harry," she said quietly, "Harry, what _have_ you been up to?"

The pity in her eyes was apparent, and it was accentuated by the tone of her voice. It brought tears to Harry's eyes, and he tried to prop himself up from his position on the floor, shame consuming him as he stared up at the Weasley's.

"Ummm, Molly...", began the man who had been watching Harry, "Molly, who _is_ this? What's he doing here?"

"Shut up Richard," Molly whispered, still staring at Harry as he lay in his filthy suit upon the floor, "Come on Harry, let's find you a room. You can have one for yourself. I'll bring you some food up. You should probably spend a few days just lying in, not seeing anybody and-"

"But the wedding! I've got to go the wedding! That's why I'm here!" He was becoming unnecessarily frantic.

"Harry dear, the wedding's not for four days. You should just rest until then. You'll look as good as new in that time." There was doubt in her voice.

Harry could not remember very much of the first three days he spent in his private room near the top of the Weasley's house. He had seen no one but Mrs. Weasley, who had brought him meals and led him to the bath. He found that he could not eat very much, having gone for so many weeks living off table scraps which he had been given by Simon, and also could not bear to have lights present for long periods of time, having become accustomed to darker, grimier surroundings. On the second day in the room, his trunk had arrived, filled with his suits, guns, muggle money, and Hogwarts apparel. It had been a welcome addition to the room, because it meant that he could finally remove the filthy undergarments he had been wearing for nearly a week. The Weasley's had not opened the trunk, nor had they touched the clothes he was wearing. It seemed as though they either wanted to give Harry his privacy, or were simply to afraid of what they might find. A combination of the two, Harry realized, was probably most likely, and this relieved him, because to have Mr. Weasley searching through his trunk was an idea that made him sick.

By the third day, the day before the wedding, Harry felt much stronger, and, in his opinion, he looked much healthier as well. His eyes were still encircled by fairly dark circles, and his complexion was still very pale, but his scar was less inflamed, his teeth much whiter, and hair back to its normally unruly state, if slightly longer than before. Mrs. Weasley was a magnificent cook, and Harry suspected that some of the drinks she had supplied him with may have been tainted with different potions. The gratitude he felt for her was beyond words. Death would have been a very apparent danger for him if not for her help.

The prospect of seeing his friends again was a slightly forboding idea. Would they be angry with his long absence from their lives? Would they demand to know what he had been up to, which he did not intend on telling them? What would they think of his slightly frightening appearance. The thoughts swirled in his head, confusing and frustrating him. He had also thought frequently of Ginny. He knew that the inevitable encounter between them would be a tense, probably anger-filled affair, and he was not looking forward to it.

All of these worries, Harry knew, would become reality within a few hours, when the wedding would begin. He sat at the end of his bed, staring at his trunk. The decision of whether or not to return to Hogwarts had still not been made, and with everyday, his deadline came closer. Half of him, the half he was most familiar with, wanted desperately to return , to be a student and a child for one more year. The other half, the half which had surfaced over the last weeks, could not bear the idea of being under the constant surveillance and direction of teachers and other figures of authority. Also, Harry feared, this half would miss the killing, miss the gunshots, miss the look in the face of evil men as they died at his hands. He loved the control he had over so many peoples fates, the way he could make a man fall on his knees and beg for mercy with the simple twitch his lips.

Inside his trunk, Harry found his one suit which wasn't made of the dark material. It was an off-white, creamy color, and made of a very light cloth. He chose a blue, silk shirt with thin white stripes through it, and left the two top buttons undone. He then threw on the suit pants and jacket and found some sunglasses whose tint matched the blue of his shirt. He turned to the mirror.

"That's a bit more like it laddy!" said his reflection. "Top notch really."

Harry grinned widely at the mirror, but quickly stifled it, remembering as he saw his smile that his teeth were still slightly yellow and his gums still slightly grey.

Voices were rising softly up from the garden, which was far below his window, and he knew it was time to stop avoiding the inevitable. With another quick, though close lipped, smile at his reflection, Harry turned and made his way down the stairs.

There were people everywhere, bustling in and out of each and every room, most of them in what looked like old and faithful dress robes, although some of the younger members of the vast mass of people in the house wore muggle suits like Harry. At each turn Harry saw a similar scene; a wife adjusting a tie, a father yelling at his children to behave, an older child looking bored and surely, and all of them looking rather flustered. Harry was able to slip quietly and unnoticed through the crowd, which he was very pleased about, until suddenly a hand reached from nowhere and gripped him firmly above his left elbow. His right hand, acting on impulse, shot to his waist band, but he found no gun. He had left it on his dresser along with his wand. Completely unarmed! He turned, ready to fight to the death, but was greeted only by the surprised face of Ron Weasley, looking rather dapper in a black suit and red shirt and tie, which actually matched his hair.

"Ron!" Harry gasped, exhaling slowly as he tried to calm down, "It's you."

"'Course it's fuckin' me, mate," he replied, looking shocked at Harry's unusual behavior, "Who were you expecting? King fucking Kong?"

Harry smiled slightly, trying to put Ron at ease.

"How long have you been here?" Ron continued, "Mum said someone arrived a couple nights ago, but we couldn't figure out who the fuck it was. It wasn't you, was it?"

"Yea," replied Harry, "Yeah it was. I had to sneak in so as not to disturb nobody." He was having to shout over the din of the people around him. Ron was looking scandalized.

"You've been here for four fuckin' days and you never fuckin' told me? What the fuck is that?"

"Ron, I wasn't fuckin' conscious for most of it, all right. Your mum told me to rest."

"Not fuckin' conscious? What the fuck have you been up to anyway?"

The band in the garden started playing a loud, upbeat tune, the signal for the guests to sit down.

"Look," said Harry, "We'll talk later. Let's just enjoy the wedding now, all right? Where's Hermione."

"With Ginny," said Ron, a touch of bitterness on his voice, "She'll be along."

With that they moved out of the kitchen and into the glorious day.


	5. Blazin' Glory

As Harry and Ron moved into the back garden of the Burrow, the sun's violent beams blinded them slightly, for it was a day of the most profound and brilliant glory. Each and every flower in the rather wild yard gleamed in the light, and even the garden gnomes had lined up into small, formal rows, clearly understanding the importance of the date. It was, in Harry's opinion, the ideal setting for a wedding, especially one where the bride and groom would not have had to work very hard to outshine normal surroundings.

Harry turned to Ron who was looking around with his mouth slightly open, clearly shocked that his garden would ever look so gorgeous. People were flooding out of the door behind them and surging on either of their sides, but Harry and Ron stood immobile in their spot, relishing the scene.

Different people came up to Harry in surprise and with delight on their face; most of them seemed to have been worried about whether or not he would make it. Fred and George looked dashing in vibrant orange blazers and neon-green slacks. Charlie was wearing a set off rather warm-looking black dress robes, as was a tall, floppy haired young man who was introduced as Melo, and was Bill's best man.

"Got some brilliant stories 'bout him, I have." Melo whispered to Harry with a wink.

The Minister of Magic, who, it seemed, felt obliged to attend now that Mr. Weasley was a senior member of the Ministry, nodded rather coldly to Harry, but looked quite regal nonetheless.

A very poignant moment could be observed as Harry met and was embraced warmly by Mrs. Diggory, the mother of the murdered Cedric, and was treated to some very kind words by Mr. Diggory.

It was both a thrill for Harry to see these people, as well as a rather difficult reminder. However, the two young women he really wanted to find were seemingly hidden in the vast wave of people. Ron kept saying that they would show up, although Harry was beginning to have his doubts, and when he caught a glimpse of Hermione striding towards them from afar, alone, the gloominess he felt increased.

"Harry!" she said loudly as she finally drew even with them, "Harry, we've been desperately worried. Where on earth have you been?" He began to make up an excuse on the spot, but Hermione would not let him finish. "Never mind that for now," she said, throwing her arms around him in a swift hug, "We'll have plenty of time to talk later. Assuming, of course, that we'll be able to find a quiet corner. It's really awfully crowded, isn't it?"

Harry was on the verge of saying that it didn't look to crowded in Ron's bedroom three nights ago, but wisely restrained himself. Instead, he nodded in agreement, and turned to lead the three of them to seats near the back of the rows, but not without noticing Ron whispering something to Hermione in a supposedly accusatory tone. She shook her head firmly, and turned to Harry, who had already stopped looking at them.

The garden, which had, perhaps, been magically enhanced, had the appearance of a rather large church, but without walls, a roof, or floors. There were row upon row of white chairs set up, which were headed by a small, elevated platform upon which was placed a simple white table, which would serve as the alter. A large gap ran between the two main columns of seats. 'Beautiful in its simplicity', thought Harry.

It took a great deal of time, and great many numbers by the three person band before each of the hundreds of guests had found a seat. The Minister of Magic was sitting in the second row of the right hand column, surrounded by a full entourage of Ministry officials, while a select group of Weasleys, including Fred, George, Charlie, Molly, and Arthur occupied the front row. The left hand column was chalk full of rather beautiful looking French men and woman, many with flowing blonde hair and elaborate dress robes. It was a stark contradiction to the unruly red mops and battered dress robes which could be found on the left hand side.

Finally, the music stopped playing for a moment, and a tiny, balding wizard climbed up to the table. He was clearly the magical pastor who would preside over the ceremony.

He immediately launched into a short and disgracefully dull speech about the joys of marriage, and Harry found his attention wandering quite quickly. He did not care for talk of love. As he stared around the crowd, his eyes eventually flitted to his left, wear Ron was sitting directly beside him. Hermione was of course on Ron's other side, and an empty chair sat beside her. Harry leaned across Ron to address Hermione.

"Psst... Oi, Hermione. Is, er...Is that chair for...y'know?"

She looked over at him. She was wearing the same dress robes as she had at the Yule Ball in their fourth year, and the same pity that Mrs. Weasley had worn three nights earlier.

"Harry," she said, "Harry you should really take of those sunglasses. I'm sure you look fine without them."

"And don't give a fuck about the sunglasses," he hissed back, causing Hermione to role her eyes in frustration, "All I want to know is whether that chair's for Ginny, and whether she's coming. Is she?"

"I don't know," responded Hermione stiffly, "But I rather doubt she'll be sitting here if she does come."

"Bullocks!" Harry muttered to himself as he slid back across a rather uncomfortable looking Ron. He had wanted to see her quite badly. He didn't feel the same way about their situation as he had at the end of the school year.

But Harry didn't have long to dwell on his thoughts, because the wedding procession was finally beginning. Melo strutted up the aisle, bringing with him a kind looking woman of French origin. Next followed Charlie, who was kindly escorting a very awe-struck Gabrielle, the younger sister of Fleur. After both pairings had split up at the alter, a tall man of about twenty came gliding up the aisle, his blonde hair flowing like so many of Fleur's relatives, and he was escorting none other than Ginny.

Although he didn't see her face, Harry could tell that she was not in her normal, perky and confident state. His eyes followed her hungrily beneath his blue-tinted glasses, although the visible portion of his face stay completely emotionless.

Bill was now walking down the aisle, smiling widely beneath the rather ugly wounds which had been inflicted upon him several weeks ago. He winked noticeably and Ron and Harry, who had turned around to watch him approach. Ron grinned broadly and pointed at him with either hand, while Harry smiled in a tight, lightly amused way.

The music began again, the music which signalled the arrival of the bride. Fleur walked up the aisle, a stunning smile in place on her spectacular face. The beauty of her robes and her hair seemed to earn some contemptuous glances from several female members of the Weasley entourage. Fleur's father, who was giving her away, was tall, had broad shoulders, and remarkably black, well groomed hair. He was smiling with confidence and grace, and continued to do so as he delivered his daughter to her future husband. As he passed Bill on his way back to his seat, he crouched in a boxing position and threw a few joking punches towards Bill, who dodged them light heartedly. Most of the crowd erupted into gracious laughter, and Mr. Delacouer squeezed his future son-in-law's arm gently before sitting down.

Harry glanced at Hermione. She was already crying slightly, he noticed. Ron was staring, it seemed, straight through his brother, a small, melancholy smile on his lips.

Harry refocused his stare towards the alter. He was mind numbingly bored, and for the most part he could only think about Severus Snape, how Severus Snape had killed Albus Dumbledore, and how he, Harry, would like to beat Severus Snape until his face looked like raw hamburger and then hang him from a bridge. This, however, was not very discrete, and would probably cause an uproar in both the wizarding and muggle world.

Perhaps he could capture Snape, with the help of Lee, and drag him to the apartment. They could always kill him there, although it would be necessary to torture him first. But no, he and Lee would never be able to simply capture Snape, he was to well protected, had to much back up.

A staged mugging! Lee could get some of his East End mates together, and they could always attack Snape somewhere in London. If they robbed of anything worth while after he was dead, then it wouldn't raise to much suspicion. But wouldn't Snape be able to fend off any number of Muggles?

If Harry went all-Muggle, he could then get to Snape. He could simply wait outside his former teacher's door until he came out, and then run up to him and unload twelve shots into the bastard's skull. Not even the most advanced magic could help him survive that. The only thing was, where the fuck did he live?

Different methods of executing the man who had killed Harry's mentor swirled through his skull, and it made the tedium of the wedding ceremony seem much less extreme.

Eventually, the pastor spoke in a sufficiently loud voice to shake Harry from his bloody day dreams.

"You may kiss the bride!" exclaimed the little man.

As Bill embraced Fleur, a massive roar escaped from the crowd, and they all stood up, cheering the union of two very special young people. It was such a loud cheer that Harry almost missed the sound of the door slamming behind him. Almost everybody did miss it, having been completely absorbed in the wedding, except for he, Harry, and Fred and George. The twins came striding purposefully back up the aisle, looks of concern and anger on their faces.

"The fuck is he doing here?" muttered one urgently.

"Dunno, but he can't be seen."

Harry turned to follow their gaze, and saw Lee Jordan, leaning lazily against the door frame.

In a split second, Harry was directly behind the Weasley twins, having pushed passed Ron and muttering about the washroom. His friend was far to enraptured with the ceremony to notice. He arrived at Lee a split second after the Weasley twins.

"-the fuck are you doing here? We told you to stay the fuck away." George was muttering viciously, although he could have easily been screaming and not been noticed, what with the cheering of the guests.

"You've got to fuckin' go, Lee. Sorry mate, but you can't be here, you know that" Fred said, slightly more calmly than George.

Lee took a small cigar out of a pocket of his ridiculously baggy black jeans. He lit it as the Weasleys continued to berate him, blowing a think cloud of smoke in their faces. When they began to cough, momentarily stopping their ranting, Lee turned to Harry.

"They're comin' mate. They're nearly 'ere." he stated simply, his face remaining blank.

"Who?" asked Harry, "Lee who's coming?"

Lee looked at him as if he was daft. "The fuckin Deaf Eaters, mate. 'Oo the fuck d'you fink?"

Harry stared at him, his teeth grinding together. At the Weasley's fucking wedding. Where woman and children could be openly slaughtered. The blood was pounding in Harry's ears.

"How long?" he demanded. Fred and George had stayed motionless, listening intently since the mention of Death Eaters.

"I fink," said Lee slowly, "That we've got 'bout, say, two, maybe free minutes-"

"Get in-fuckin'-side!" Harry cut him off, hissing at Fred, George and Lee.

They slipped inside, unnoticed by the crowd, which was slowly starting to calm down. Harry began speaking immediately.

"Lee, you got your gun?"

"Fuckin' right 'Arry. Got an extra, too."

"Give it to Fred. You to get outside and stand in front of the house. Look casual, but if you see anyone, open fire with spells and bullets, right. Tell Fred how to fire."

"Righty right!"

Lee spun on his heal and sauntered out of the house, still smoking his cigar. Fred hurried out after him, as white as Harry.

"George," Harry began, but was cut off.

"Harry, what the fuck is going on-"

"No time, mate," said Harry, "Fuckin' Death Eaters coming now. We've got to defend these people."

"I've got some mates in the crowd! I'll get 'em, they'll be a help!"

"Fuck 'em!" shouted Harry, "No fuckin' time. They'll get the picture soon enough." And he turned quickly, sprinting up the stairs to his room, George at his heels. He skidded into his room, tearing open his trunk and grabbing his wand in one motion and threw a fully loaded hand gun to George, closely followed by another clip.

"Just pull the fuckin' trigger mate." said Harry.

He then pulled his favourite chrome glocks from within the trunk and loaded himself up with ammunition. He turned to George.

"You ready mate?"

"Yeah, 'course I am Harry. This is how I always pictured myself going out; in blazing fuckin' glory!"


	6. Mob Wedding

The two young men sprinted out of the room, down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the front yard of the Burrow, still hearing the oblivious crowd on the other side of the building. They stopped beside Fred, who looked scared, but who was keeping a stiff upper lip, and Lee, who looked infinitely relaxed. His cigar was blazing on the grass beside his feet, and he was still allowing the smoke to drift out of his mouth and into the air. Not a word was spoken between the four, they simply stood and waited.

After five minutes, Harry became inpatient, desperate as he was for his enemies to appear.

"Lee," he asked, "Where the fuck are they? Shouldn't they be here by now?" He spoke calmly, though his eyes never ceased in their movement.

"Well they can't apparate, can they," began Fred slowly, "We've got a similar charm on here as they've got on Hogwarts."

"That'll change fings," said Lee, "'Cause that means they'll be comin' in by broomstick, won't they? No way they'd fuckin' risk an unauforized Port Key. And the Floo Network's well controlled, innit?"

"Yeah," responded Harry, "Yeah, it'll be broomsticks."

And as though at Harry's command, several cloaked figures appeared high in the sky on the horizon, rapidly closing in on where they were standing.

"Steady yourselves mates.", said Harry.

A spell of a violent red colour screamed between Harry and Fred, landing on the grass behind them and igniting a large fire. Harry raised the gun in his left hand and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet up to the group of Death Eaters, and knocking one off of it's broom in a shower of crimson. The sight of one of their own dead on the ground fifty feet below them had a serious affect on the Death Eaters. They unleashed spell after spell, each one seeming more and more dangerous as it connected with the ground or house around the boys, who had sprinted to the bits of debris around the yard for protection. They drew their wands, and fired a constant stream of bullets and curses towards the dark figures above them. Harry could here Lee Jordan screaming at the sky, the maniacal tone of his voice having a chilling affect on the scene.

Luckily for Harry, Lee, and the twins, the Death Eaters above them had a great deal less cover than they, and soon the original eight who were flying towards them were sliced down to three. The boys ran out from behind their cover as one of them landed on the road in front, and discarded his broom, sprinting towards the house, his wand a constant blaze of green. The other two, it seemed, were flying far two fast to land, but soon displayed their plans, as they each flew through a window in the upper reaches of the house.

Lee and Harry looked at each other, and Harry nodded. Lee sprinted to the front door, his dreadlocks trailing behind his head. Harry turned to the one Death Eater in the front yard who was, in typical fashion, surrendering to Fred and George as he realized he was outnumbered.

"You got it under control lads?" screamed Harry.

"He ain't going fuckin' no where, Harry!" George responded.

Harry nodded again, and ran towards the door. Fred and George had done very well, suffering only a few cuts each. Harry himself was untouched, and Lee had sustained no injury except a small gash on his left hand. It had, thus far been a much easier battle than he had anticipated. The house was quiet when Harry entered it, and he climbed the stairs rapidly, but silently, until he reached Lee crouching on a landing.

"I got one of the fuckers, 'Arry," whispered Lee, "Body Bindin' curse. Be'ind me."

Harry peaked in the room behind Lee, which was filled to overflowing with suitcases and trunks, and was occupied by one Death Eater, laying completely immobile on the ground. The light from the window reflected in his eyes. He was crying.

"Lee," hissed Harry, "What have you said to him?"

"Nuffink, fuck. What the fuck would I say?"

"Well he's fuckin' cryin'."

"'Ow's it my fault 'ee's a fuckin' coward 'Arry?" His voice was rising slightly.

"It's not, it's not," said Harry, trying to calm him down, "Just I didn't expect it that's all. Listen I'm going to go get the last one. He's up higher isn't he?" Lee nodded. "Good," Harry continued, "Don't do anything stupid."

And with that he continued up the stairs, more slowly this time.

Each room was empty on Harry's way up, which meant, that the last Death Eater would be taking cover in his room, at the top of the building. Harry checked the ammunition in his guns; he had barely used any. Beside his door, he paused to listen. Heavy breathing, and the occasional grunt of pain could be heard; it sounded as though the Death Eater had injured himself flying through the window. On the floor between Harry's room and the one directly across the hall, the room through which the man had gained access to the house, blood was glistening darkly, sometimes accentuated by the flicker of glass. An exceptionally loud grunt came from the room, and Harry spun. The floor was thick with blood, and the man leaning against the wall looked like an overgrown pincushion stuffed with jagged diamonds. He did not hear Harry enter, focused as he was on pulling himself up to window ledge. He withdrew his wand as he peered out. With a jolt, Harry remembered the wedding, still carrying on below.

"Oi!" he screamed, hoping to direct the man's attention.

Without paying any heed to Harry's yell, the man muttered something, and a flash of green shot from his wand, raining down upon the congregation. It was the last word he would ever speak, as a bullet entered the back of his skull with a quiet crunch, and he slumped against the frame.

"Fucker..." spat Harry, and he turned to leave.

But as he took his first step, a scream erupted from the garden below him. And another. And then the sound of machine gun fire. Harry streaked to the window, screaming in anguish with what he saw. The Death Eaters that had flown in from the front of the house had been a diversion, nothing else. In the field behind the Burrow stood at least fifteen more, each one with a machine gun; each one firing round after round into the crowd at the marriage. At least twenty members of the party were already dead, lying in the green grass in their suits and dress robes, blood streaming from wounds through out their bodies. In one stride, Harry reached his trunk and grabbed his broomstick, and then jumped form the window, slinging it between his legs as he fell. He streaked over the carnage beneath him and fired shot after shot at the Death Eaters, taking down three in his first sweep, before turning round to double back. He let loose another shot, ripping through the cloak of one of the hooded figures, embedding the bullet in his right eye, and then aiming again. Before he could fire another shot, though, a machine gun bullet caught his left shoulder, and he slipped of his broom, falling twenty feet into the field behind the weeding ceremony. Gunshots zipped past his nose as he lay on his back, concealed by the tall grass. At the first pause, he fired back blindly, rewarded with yet another scream of agony. More bullets pounded the ground around him, and he was grazed by at least three shots in the stomach before one landed firmly in his right calf. The pain exploded inside his head, and it was all he could do to refrain from releasing a blood curdling scream.

"Fuck it, he's dead!" yelled a voice from the yard of the burrow, and the bullets around him stopped, although the noise carried on.

Harry forced himself to sit up, eternal darkness swimming before his eyes. The fight was still raging; the Death Eaters, of which there were only four left, had formed a tight semicircle, all with their backs to him. They continued to let their guns blaze into the yard, although their were few witches and wizards left to be seen.

Fleur's father was working with Arthur Weasley, peeking around a small shed, firing curse after curse towards the assailants.

Three different groups of younger Weasleys were hiding behind different benches and chairs, as were two groups of Delacouers.

Members of the Order of the Phoenix, as well as different Ministry officials were darting between trees in the yard, each of them firing curses and conjuring temporary shields.

Fred and George came running around the garage, both of them firing their guns with fury. George dived behind a overturned table, while Fred simply stepped into the open, and carefully aimed before firing and hitting a Death Eater in the face, felling him. He was not quick enough to join his brother behind the table though, and was hit with a shot to the chest, which dropped him immediately.

Seeing his son fall, Mr.Weasley dodged out from behind the shed and screamed a curse viciously, hitting and knocking out a Death Eater. The final two, a man and a woman, finally seemed to realize that their luck had run out. They turned to retreat, outnumbered at least ten to one, and ran back towards Harry, to where they had undoubtedly left their broomsticks. Ignoring all pain except that in his heart, Harry stood up abruptly, staring without expression at his remaining opponents.

Richard, the young Weasley who had tread on Cecil's face several days earlier, felled the man with a very strong curse, while the woman stood, watching Harry with open and unflattering terror upon her face. Harry deliberately raised his gun and unleashed three bullets, hitting her in the mouth, neck and eye. No scream escaped her lips as she was knocked backwards by the shots.

Harry passed quickly into unconsciousness, the petrified eyes of the dead woman glaring at him as the darkness overwhelmed him.


End file.
